( That this was a balm for one thing and an irritant to another is of little surprise. On their journey, she had told him as much as she could of the most immediate matters, littered between cautionary tales that should be taken as such. Of House Strong, with some pang of distant hurt; of Daemon, teetering on a complexity that she shoves into simplicity. She tries to recall if he remembered Alicent before she had become Queen, bonds severed to irreparable odds, though he would deduce that for himself with little difficulty. (But when she and Elrond stand side by side overlooking the sea, conversation quieted to a lull and ship swaying underfoot and he slips his hand over hers, it is an anchor and a balm of its own, her shoulder pressed to his).
When the seed is planted, and she steals the time away to visit it herself (though at times worries on interrupting his quickly formed ritual) and works to impart on anyone who tends the gardens within the courtyard that it should be tended to with utmost care, small stones placed around it so that that no one may tread into it.
That Elrond bares no formal responsibilities other than title of Prince Consort had not carried a pressing need to remedy. That they were able to entertain their respective lessons with a pleasant sort of consistency felt well enough like a victory (that he had a natural talent for languages, by her estimation, was nearly frustrating as it was impressive; her progress felt sluggish in comparison); though she had started to worry at the potential press of boredom. Their libraries were filled enough, but that was hardly exciting. Certainly not for someone who has seen so much in his time (a thought that was closely followed with the understanding that she barely knew what he's seen at all).
In truth, she thought — with some selfish sort of excitement — that she would perhaps be able to convince him to ride Syrax with her soon (a half forgotten dream from childhood brought closer to the truth). That any such plans would be interrupted by Otto Hightower's machinations, souring mood significantly, was a somber reminder of their reality.
There is to be no peace; to have expected differently was foolishness.
His approach interrupts her pacing, if not the spiraling thoughts. It stops her from twisting at her wedding band, glimmering stones that catch even the slightest of light like bottled starlight and instead she pivots towards him.
When she reaches for his hand, it is to anchor; a minute touch that somehow serves to bring her comfort, some slowly forming habit that she doesn't realize, a dance of boundaries and some balance of boldness. ) They seek to call your lineage into doubt, ( Her voice still sounds wavering, wrapped up in a rolling anger. She does have to wonder, just how much of the whispers he's heard. How much of a surprise this even is. It's difficult, to meet his gaze, if only because she's abundantly aware that he had little choice in being shoved into this mess at all. ) Alongside it, of course, the legitimacy of this marriage — a finer point made more difficult to argue, given that Viserys himself bore witness to it.
( The laughter that bubbles over is incredulous. ) One would think. ( That Elrond characterized the Greens with any lasting generosity was still an indication of his better nature. But she would not see him befall to their poison. His safety might be more assured than any other, as the Elven alliance hangs from it. But — accidents happen, well timed. Locked doors and fires.
She shakes her head, glassy eyes falling to their hands instead, a thumb passing across his knuckle. ) They — ( A beat, hesitating. But no, he should know all that was said. A sting of truth is better than hiding it. ) — they raised the question on the translation of Peredhel.
To what fucking end? ( She can guess. A blow to his name and weakening a claim to their union means they can claim illegitimacy to their eventual — assumed, supposed — progeny, and thus further alienating her and her name from the throne. Let alone ruining an already less than pristine reputation. It may be a reach, but — well, it suits. )
no subject
When the seed is planted, and she steals the time away to visit it herself (though at times worries on interrupting his quickly formed ritual) and works to impart on anyone who tends the gardens within the courtyard that it should be tended to with utmost care, small stones placed around it so that that no one may tread into it.
That Elrond bares no formal responsibilities other than title of Prince Consort had not carried a pressing need to remedy. That they were able to entertain their respective lessons with a pleasant sort of consistency felt well enough like a victory (that he had a natural talent for languages, by her estimation, was nearly frustrating as it was impressive; her progress felt sluggish in comparison); though she had started to worry at the potential press of boredom. Their libraries were filled enough, but that was hardly exciting. Certainly not for someone who has seen so much in his time (a thought that was closely followed with the understanding that she barely knew what he's seen at all).
In truth, she thought — with some selfish sort of excitement — that she would perhaps be able to convince him to ride Syrax with her soon (a half forgotten dream from childhood brought closer to the truth). That any such plans would be interrupted by Otto Hightower's machinations, souring mood significantly, was a somber reminder of their reality.
There is to be no peace; to have expected differently was foolishness.
His approach interrupts her pacing, if not the spiraling thoughts. It stops her from twisting at her wedding band, glimmering stones that catch even the slightest of light like bottled starlight and instead she pivots towards him.
When she reaches for his hand, it is to anchor; a minute touch that somehow serves to bring her comfort, some slowly forming habit that she doesn't realize, a dance of boundaries and some balance of boldness. ) They seek to call your lineage into doubt, ( Her voice still sounds wavering, wrapped up in a rolling anger. She does have to wonder, just how much of the whispers he's heard. How much of a surprise this even is. It's difficult, to meet his gaze, if only because she's abundantly aware that he had little choice in being shoved into this mess at all. ) Alongside it, of course, the legitimacy of this marriage — a finer point made more difficult to argue, given that Viserys himself bore witness to it.
( The laughter that bubbles over is incredulous. ) One would think. ( That Elrond characterized the Greens with any lasting generosity was still an indication of his better nature. But she would not see him befall to their poison. His safety might be more assured than any other, as the Elven alliance hangs from it. But — accidents happen, well timed. Locked doors and fires.
She shakes her head, glassy eyes falling to their hands instead, a thumb passing across his knuckle. ) They — ( A beat, hesitating. But no, he should know all that was said. A sting of truth is better than hiding it. ) — they raised the question on the translation of Peredhel.
To what fucking end? ( She can guess. A blow to his name and weakening a claim to their union means they can claim illegitimacy to their eventual — assumed, supposed — progeny, and thus further alienating her and her name from the throne. Let alone ruining an already less than pristine reputation. It may be a reach, but — well, it suits. )